


An Overdue Interview

by latin_cat



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:06:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1815 - After Waterloo, Hornblower is reunited with his family.  SPOILERS for <i>Lord Hornblower</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Overdue Interview

**PARIS ~ JUNE 1815**

Hornblower sat stiffly on the edge of his seat, all too conscious of his shabby clothes and general unkempt appearance. He was weary still from the long carriage ride that had brought him almost directly from his prison cell to this house in Paris. On alighting he had not been given any opportunity to change or see to his toilette, but had been led straight into this small anteroom by a smartly uniformed _aide de camp_ , who had left him here and then disappeared through a narrow, polished ebony door at the other end of the room. That had been five minutes ago by Hornblower’s reckoning, or had it been an hour? Time seemed to have no logical progression in his present exhausted and apprehensive state.

Some hint of what was to face him on his arrival in Paris had been given to him in the carriage on the way, and Hornblower had received the news with fatalistic acceptance. He should have expected this; after his behaviour of the past few months, after he had selfishly abandoned his duty, his prospects, his country and his wife on some dangerous, guilt-ridden romantic whim it could not possibly have ended in any other way than with the forthcoming interview. Beyond that narrow doorway, Hornblower knew with a dreadful certainty, he would find the man all Europe declared as its saviour twice over; a man, previously mortal, now hailed as Mars Incarnate – despite Bonaparte himself having coveted that very title not less than a year ago. This demi-god was Hornblower’s brother-in-law, and it was to be their first meeting face to face.

With his marriage to Barbara, Hornblower had inherited a veritable plethora of relatives. It had been a daunting enough prospect for a man who had practically no family of his own, yet in the Wellesleys he had also unwittingly allied himself with a true Patrician family; vast and influential. Even only counting immediate relatives Hornblower had acquired no less than six brothers-in-law, all save one of which he had met at his wedding or just before. The third eldest of the Wellesley brothers, Arthur, had been away campaigning against the French in the Peninsula when Hornblower and Barbara’s banns had been read, and he had remained on the Continent even after the victory a year earlier which had led to the Emperor’s first abdication. Back then it had been Richard, Marquis Wellesley, who had been head of the family; but Arthur’s dukedom had since eclipsed the paltry marquisate of his eldest brother, and Hornblower with the rest of the family had sensed the shift in power. The name of Wellington, spoken with reverence by king and commoner alike, was not to be trifled with.

Therefore, under normal circumstances, it would have been vital that this interview went well. Under normal circumstances. Perhaps, Hornblower thought bitterly, the firing squad would have been a better option than the disgrace that must surely follow.

Eventually, after what seemed like an age, the aide re-emerged and held the door open, looking at Hornblower expectantly.

“His Grace will see you now, my lord.”

Thus mindful of his recklessness and countless sins of the past year, it was with the attitude of a man already condemned that Hornblower walked over the threshold and into the room beyond. The door shut with a soft _click_ behind him.

It was still quite early in the morning, the open curtains allowing the sparsely furnished room to be bathed in pale sunlight; though two of the candles from the night before still burned low in their holders on the desk. Seated at this desk, poring over various documents, was a man in his mid forties; athletic in build, neat in his dress of a plain grey coat and white cravat, his short tawny hair liberally streaked with grey around the temples. The image of this man was to be found everywhere in England, much as Nelson’s had once been, but no one portrait could prepare Hornblower for seeing him in the flesh.

When the duke raised his head from the page he was studying, Hornblower was struck by the sharp, clear blue eyes that directed their glare at him from either side of that famous hooked nose. They were the same eyes that his wife possessed, and the glare was very similar in character too; yet unlike Barbara’s, the duke’s gaze made him somehow feel totally insignificant. Hornblower cleared his throat in an attempt to disguise his nerves.

“Ha-h’m.”

Wellington raised one cold eyebrow half an inch.

“Do you have something in your throat?”

Startled, Hornblower flushed, heat rushing to his face.

“No, sir – your grace. Thank you, I am perfectly well,” he murmured. Damn it, the duke had seen through him straight away, just as Barbara had!

Wellington meanwhile leaned back in his chair with what only could be described as an air of casual menace, fingers steepled together, over which he studied Hornblower closely.

“It is just as well,” he said mildly, though the duke’s expression did not suggest he thought anything of the sort. “I doubt if my sister would forgive me, Lord Hornblower, if you were to be returned to us safe and sound only to perish in my office.”

It may possibly have been meant as a joke, though there was no sign of amusement in the duke’s eyes and Hornblower did not feel inclined to laugh; not even hysterically. In truth it was fast unnerving him how many parallels he was beginning to see between the character of his wife and the Duke of Wellington, as it seemed Barbara and her brother were not only alike in looks... which was not a thought to comfort any man. 

“I am perfectly well,” he repeated.

“So it appears,” Wellington said dryly, implying that the subject need not be dwelt upon. Hornblower was relieved, as left to carry on he felt sure he would have ended up repeating himself like some senile old fool, such was his state of mental and physical fatigue. He was most likely low enough in his brother-in-law’s opinion already; it did not need him rambling to make things any worse.

Perhaps something of his internal exhaustion began to show at that point, for the duke invited him to sit, pulling up a chair opposite the desk before crossing to a small table that was acting as a side board. He poured out two glasses from the decanter and handed one to Hornblower.

“Drink this,” he said simply. “You will feel better for it.”

Hornblower obediently raised the glass to his lips and very nearly choked on the first sip. It was sherry.

“I apologise that it is not brandy. I know from Barbara that you prefer it, but I am afraid I do not have any. Besides, I admit to having developed a taste for this over the course of the war.”

“Not at all, it is very fine,” Hornblower hurriedly reassured his host – and in order to add conviction to the statement he drained off half the glass in a dignified manner, suppressing a shudder at the unusual sweetness. He did not know if it made him feel any better though, as he felt somewhat nauseous and his empty stomach gave a small gurgle of protest.

The duke took a small sip from his own glass, but the icy blue gaze had not let up at all. He carefully set the glass down and then leant back in his chair again.

“Lady Hornblower was quite distressed when she heard you were still on the Continent after Bonaparte’s escape.” Hornblower noticed the deliberate use of Barbara’s title; the title that was rightfully hers as his wife. “She has been most anxious for your welfare, as I have been anxious for her sake.”

“I do not doubt it, your grace,” Hornblower replied, not knowing what else to say. Wellington frowned.

“I did not expect so callous an answer from you, Hornblower,” the duke said, dropping all pretence at formality. “I had been led to believe you were a sensible, capable, if somewhat solemn and stubborn fellow; but I had not expected blind stupidity! You knew what must be said, how much your wife and your family would suffer from such an escapade as yours. You did not think what would be said when Barbara arrived in Vienna without the company of her husband, with the excuse that you were detained by business in England? Even then she had her suspicions; but to receive the news that you had left Smallbridge for Nevers in order to see the Vicomtess de Graçay was a harsh blow for her to take indeed.”

“I was there at the invitation of the Comte de Graçay.”

“That is neither here or there. The Comte’s invitation may have given you a veneer of respectability, but what did that matter when it was well known that the Vicomtess’ invitation was of another sort entirely? It is over now, however, which is for the best; though it is unfortunate that the end had to be so tragic.”

Hornblower’s guilt twisted at his heart again, but he also felt a stab of anger towards to duke for reminding him of that guilt which he had so studiously ignored when he had shared Marie’s bed and lost himself in her embraces. It grieved him to hear her talked about in such a cold fashion; for her death to be only “unfortunate” and “tragic”! And what right did Wellington have to pass judgement? Rumours had been rife in Paris last year as to notorious courtesans and ladies of good birth, but loose morals, who had been seen in public and were privately suspected to be bestowing their favours upon the conquering hero. Such rumours had wounded the Duchess of Wellington, left at home with the duke’s two sons, and Hornblower had witnessed the grief that poor Kitty had suffered. In truth Hornblower did not think much of Kitty; she was short-sighted, retiring, weak and had long lost her looks, abandoned but utterly devoted to her absent husband – a completely unsuitable consort for a man such as Wellington, much as poor Maria had been to himself. Yet Hornblower at least could claim that he had made the effort to save Maria from any embarrassment, that he had cared for her in every way he could, short of loving her, and resisted temptation when it had passed his way. Wellington, it was said, did not even try… Yet whatever his own past virtues, it still did not change the fact that he had chosen to betray Barbara. This reflection took but a moment, and Hornblower was provoked to counter the duke’s accusation.

“You are aware, then, of everything that passed during my time in the Nivernais, your grace?” he demanded.

“I am.”

“Then you will be aware of the part I played in organising a resistance that kept regular Imperial troops tied down in that province trying to suppress a rebellion instead of being free to fight against the Allied Armies elsewhere?”

Wellington’s face took on an expression of irritation, and Hornblower knew that he had struck home. He and his small band of rebels (even now he still thought of them as ‘his’) had successfully engaged the attention of 14th Léger, 40th Ligne, a squadron of 10th Hussars and another unidentified regiment – men that could have so easily been deployed in Belgium against Wellington, could have so easily turned his brother-in-law’s final victory into a devastating rout – for several weeks. It had been a desperate escapade, but he had reassured himself with the knowledge that he had performed his duty well as far as frustrating the enemy was concerned. No one in the British Army, least of all Wellington, could deny the effectiveness of guerrilla warfare.

“I admit that your campaign in the Nivernais was successful in detaining a significant number of the enemy’s troops,” the duke said at length. “And that this quite possibly had an overall affect the distribution of Bonaparte’s forces against the Allied Army; yet it does not change the fact that you ran an inexcusable risk with your life, and are guilty of dereliction of duty.”

Hornblower was outraged, and in turn glared at the man opposite him, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so hard that his knuckles turned white.

“I would have thought, your grace,” he said bitterly. “That my duty as an officer of His Majesty’s Navy was to seize any chance to thwart the enemy’s plans, no matter how small or how desperate. I had the opportunity to do damage to Bonaparte’s armies and I took it.”

“That may be the case at sea,” Wellington retorted, not at all moved by Hornblower’s sudden flash of indignation. “But you are not a soldier. Your duty was to safeguard your person so that your talents may be put to use by the Admiralty where they are most needed, not to go gallivanting off deep into enemy territory on some forlorn hope!”

Silence fell as both men sat exchanging hostile glares across the desk; blue eyes into brown, each determined to prove their own point.

But as ever Hornblower’s habit for self-recrimination defeated him, and he was the first to lower his eyes; focussing his gaze on the titled floor in shame and heaving a great sigh. Lord, how his head ached…! Wellington was right; it had not been his duty. He had been taken in by his own lie. Why then had he done it? Hornblower was still not convinced he was certain of the reasons himself. Because he had been there? Because the Duchess has asked him to? Because he had sought revenge for Bush’s death? Because it had been a last show of defiance against the madness of this final act of the war? Whatever the reason he knew it had been selfish. He had not attended the Congress with Arthur and Barbara because he, in his view, had suffered enough of fawning and intrigue, but not being content with his exile he had left Smallbridge simply because he was bored. He could have joined Barbara then in Vienna, but he had not. Instead he had sought out Marie, sweet loving Marie, and her father the Comte knowing how it would hurt Barbara when (not if) she found out – and he had plunged into his foolhardy guerrilla campaign without caring how many people died, if he died, and knowing full well that in the process he would undoubtedly break Barbara’s heart.

He had chosen not to care or accept the responsibilities, and that was what had brought him here; to this office in Paris where he now came under the judgement of his brother-in-law. It was no less than what he had deserved, and he would face the consequences with dignity.

“I accept full responsibility for my actions, your grace,” he said, raising his head and meeting the duke’s gaze once more, only this time there was no defiance in his eyes. “I accept also that my undertaking of a guerrilla campaign in the Nivernais was ill-considered and went against my duty as a naval officer, and will submit as much before any court of enquiry that may be assembled to consider the matter.”

Wellington gave an infinitesimal nod of approval, his expression softening a little.

“I am glad that you have come to that decision,” he said. Then, to Hornblower’s amazement, a smile curled at the corners of the duke’s mouth. “However, despite your folly I have still seen fit to recommend to His Most Christian Majesty Louis XVIII that he reward your services for assisting his loyal subjects in the Nivernais to resist the subjugation of France by the Tyrant Bonaparte – a recommendation that will doubtless bear the enthusiastic support of the Duchess of Angoulême and the Comte de Graçay.”

Hornblower could not help it; he sat gaping at his brother-in-law, utterly astonished by the sudden turn of events, and Wellington’s smile only broadened at his consternation. The transformation in the duke had been immediate and could not be more extreme. Moments before Hornblower had felt his soul withering with guilt beneath that unrelentingly icy stare; but suddenly the ice had melted, and he was being presented with warmth and courtesy. He was left flummoxed, not at all sure of where he stood. Was he about to be separated from his family and face the ruin of his career or was he not?

He was saved from further contemplation at that moment in time as the office door burst open and little Richard ran into the room, hurriedly pursued by the smart _aide de camp_.

“Uncle Arthur? Uncle Arthur, is it true? Is Papa here?”

“I apologise, your grace! I tried to stop him but he ran through my legs –”

“No, Sanders, it is quite alright. Yes, he is here, Richard,” Wellington said, turning his attention to the boy and speaking in a surprisingly gentle tone. “But he is quite wearied. Your father has had a trying time these past few weeks.”

Having spotted Hornblower already, Richard regarded his father’s pale and shocked face with great solemnity.

“I am glad you are returned safely, sir,” he said, his brown eyes wide with childish sincerity. He had said the words carefully and clearly, as if it had been something much rehearsed and Hornblower could not help but wonder how long his son had been aware of his peril. Last he knew he had left Richard in the care of his tutor in Smallbridge; hundreds of miles away from the woes and conflict of the Continent, so what was he doing here in Paris?

As if guessing his thoughts Wellington provided an answer to the unspoken question.

“Barbara was distressed by your continued absence after Vienna,” he said simply. “So she sent for Richard to be brought out to stay with us. She said she could not bear the thought of being without you both.”

Having delivered his speech Richard had walked round the desk and quite unashamedly clambered up onto the duke’s lap, and it further astonished Hornblower that Wellington had reacted in no other way than to simply move his chair back so that the boy had room to be seated comfortably.

“I am grateful for your grace’s kindness in tolerating his presence,” Hornblower mumbled, embarrassed by his son’s behaviour and still confused by the turn of events; but Wellington merely waved a dismissive hand.

“No trouble at all, I assure you. Indeed, I have quite enjoyed my Godson’s company – it has been better than that of most of whom I have been in company with over the past year, if I am honest.”

“We had pillow fights in the salon!” Richard interjected enthusiastically. “Though the last was not a fair fight, as Colonel Grant joined in and we ganged up on Uncle Arthur.”

“Yes, that was certainly most unfair,” Wellington protested with false severity. “I shall be having words with Grant. Now, unless you wish to see to your ablutions first, Hornblower, I believe that your wife will be anxious to lay eyes on you again. Richard, would you take your father up to your mother’s room? I will join you later, when I have finished drafting these proposals.”

Then Hornblower found himself outside in the small anteroom again; the only difference this time being that his son stood there with him, holding his hand and looking up into his face with the unashamed curiosity of the very young. Hornblower smiled in reply to that gaze, feeling a genuine happiness when little Richard smiled in return, and he thought himself a stupid, stupid fool for being so close to throwing this all away; his son, his wife, his family. In his despair he had thought only of those he had lost; Bush, Maria, Archie, Marie... Bush... Their faces had haunted him all through those wild months, and he had imagined himself alone in the world. How wrong he had been.

So it was with this epiphany that Hornblower allowed himself to be led by Richard tugging insistently on his hand, impatient to give him a full tour of the house immediately despite the request to be taken to Lady Hornblower. It would be some time before he would be allowed a chance to rest, eat or wash, but what did that matter? There were people in the world who cared for him, and he knew now that the only duty left to him in life was to make sure he cared for them in return.


End file.
